Beyond the Darkest Hour, Just Behind the Dawn
by MsCongeniality
Summary: Post-series. Mugen has a sleepless night, a fair amount of alcohol, and far too much thinking. Written for blue in the Yuletide 2008 challenge. Rated for brief violence, language and the passing mention of sex.


_Mugen slipped off his geta._

_He took a few steps across the loose ground, hoping the sound of the rain would mask him. He stopped and stood, rooted to the spot only a few feet away. He concentrated on keeping his breathing as shallow as possible._

_And he waited._

_There was hesitation. Sara stood before him, unmoving. Her eyes were closed and he could almost see her reaching out with whatever sense it was she used for this stuff; searching, in her way, for his current position._

_Time stretched, the way it does, and he found himself becoming hyper-aware, focusing in on stupid shit that didn't matter, like a small stream of water snaking down behind his right ear and how cold the wet bandages were against the heat of his belly wound._

_Then, she took a step._

_She moved forward slowly, cautiously, probing with her weapon towards where she believed him to be, and stepped past him. Jin might be an uptight bastard, but he could fight. Sometimes, he knew what he was talking about; so he'd been right, and it was a damn good thing it was raining._

_Mugen waited._

_His chance came quickly. A flash to alert him, then the rumble he hoped would mask him long enough to take her by surprise—but not good enough. She heard, parried, and in an instant he'd fucked it up completely. _

_This time, she had him cold. _

_They were back to facing each other and the only thing left was to use as much of his momentum as possible to put force behind his blow. One last shot. His sword sped towards her and then...nothing. He never connected. Instead, his side exploded as the yari's crossbar impaled him and the main blade sliced in after it. Mugen looked down, watching as she tore back and his guts spilled out with the blade, then fell to his knees. He looked up to catch one last glimpse of his assassin. His vision wavered and—_

Mugen woke with a start.

He sat up, panting as he pushed the thin cover to the side. He looked around the unfamiliar room, orienting himself in the dim light, then down at his crotch. He was hard.

"Shit," he finally ground out. "Who the hell gets off on dying?"

The woman next to him stirred, curling in more tightly on herself, as though making up for the loss of heat at her back. He thought, briefly, about getting her to take care of him. She'd been enthusiastic enough earlier, but something wasn't right about it. For a change, sex wasn't the answer. Not sure why, he cursed inwardly and got up instead; looking for the bottle of shōchū they'd abandoned when they took to the futon. If sex wasn't going to be the answer, then maybe a drink would.

He found the bottle outside on the porch that overlooked the small formal garden at the back of the house. He'd done pretty good this time around; plenty of food, nice digs and some good sex were worth a couple of days of putting up with pointless chick talk.

More luck – the bottle was still half full.

Mugen took a swig directly from the bottle and sat down hard, leaning back against one of the posts. He supposed that some folks actually liked the taste of shōchū. Hell, some people'll like anything. What's good about shōchū is that if you drink it right, it'll fuck you up good and fast.

He looked over at the pair of small cups and frowned slightly before putting the bottle to his lips again. It burned going down, but soon enough he had that warm feeling in his gut and felt almost ready to maybe think about why he was up in the middle of the night drinking.

He frowned at that and took another swig.

A few minutes later, he looked down at his stomach, running his thumb distractedly over the slight, round divot left by that retard in the wheelchair. _That'd_ hurt like a bitch. And it wasn't even a scar worth being proud of, there's no challenge or skill that comes with a musket ball. His finger moved up slightly, grazing the contour of the muscle until he found the almost invisible seam just above it, the mark Sara'd left. Now _that_ was a scar that'd been hard earned but somehow, it wasn't one he was proud of either. That bitch'd been good.

Damn good.

Hot, and damn good.

That thought elicited a full fledged scowl. Mugen grunted discontentedly and took another long pull from the bottle.

What she was, was a fool. She was that strong, and she let those assholes use her. She let herself believe her kid was okay, when she had to know there was no real reason for keeping it alive without her. She let them turn her into what she was and then, instead of fighting it, she checked out instead. What a fucking cop out.

What a fucking waste.

He lifted the bottle again, but it was light in his hand. He tried for another drink but got barely a mouthful before the thing ran dry so he pitched it as hard as he could into the darkened yard. So...awake, not quite drunk, and now he was pretty pissed off to boot.

Mugen settled back against the post again, arms crossed.

And what was with that dream, anyway? That he'd wanted to die? Bullshit. That he'd wished it were him and not her? He was alive because Sara was weak, because she couldn't hack it. Whatever she'd said about them being the same, it's not like he's just going to give up to someone who can't take him.

Not the way she did.

That idiot Fuu would probably say that she'd been noble, not weak. Jin probably thought she was strong for going against the government like that. He bought in to that whole way of the sword insanity, it'd be just the kind of thing to get him off.

They hadn't been there, though. They didn't see her just giving up. That wasn't the woman he'd met, and it sure wasn't the badass he'd fought.

Fuck it.

Fuck her.

It's not like he's going to regret living, but damn her to hell for punking out like that.

He stood up, more pissed off than before, and looked off the porch into the sky, already growing bright with false dawn. Maybe he'd been wrong, maybe screwing that chick inside was what he needed to shake this off. Maybe there was more to drink in there. Either way, he was done here. Reminiscing was for old people, and folks who think too much.

And he didn't regret it.


End file.
